


New Age Diplomacy

by newamsterdam



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain's after something; Netherlands is long-suffering. Frustrations and desires are worked out as one might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Age Diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84399.html?thread=512550575#cmt512550575) at the Kink Meme.

Nederland has never been very good at keeping secrets. He can keep his counsel, of course—he’s silent more often than not, never verbose. But he’s also obvious without words, and when it comes to his own opinions about just about anything, he’s easier to read than a book. 

And that’s why he’s currently sitting at a rounded table, chin leaning against one hand as he tries, desperately, not to fall asleep. His boredom and disdain must be evident on his face, because every few minutes his sister taps his ankle with her foot under the table. 

(Bel takes a certain amount of pride in EU meetings, likes playing host to twenty-eight other nations. She tries to encourage Nederland to feel the same way—“You’re a founder, too, broer—you like the Union, or at least you did once!”—but he’s never gotten with that agenda.) 

Now, after a particularly forceful kick from Belgium, Nederland scans the room in an attempt to find anything more interesting to focus on than Austria’s current blathering. Luxembourg sits on Nederland’s other side, sketching. Hungary and Germany are both paying rapt attention to Austria, the Italian brothers have been whispering to one another in increasingly obvious asides all day… Portugal is directly opposite Nederland, and when she catches his eye she smiles knowingly at him, flashing even white teeth. 

He likes Portugal, so he quirks a half-smile back. Maybe he’ll invite her to his rooms for a drink, later. It’s been awhile since they’ve caught up. 

But in the next moment she’s turning to her brother, sitting beside her, and murmuring something into his ear. Spain sits up immediately—it’s hard to tell whether he’d been fully awake until that moment, slouching in his chair—and Nederland’s good humor is immediately ruined. 

For all that his boss has been encouraging him to be friendly, Nederland has never managed to rid himself of his knee-jerk reaction to Spain’s presence. Watching him now, he sees no reason to try. Spain is lounging, his jacket long since removed and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s not wearing a tie, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of tanned skin.

What an asshole. 

Nederland looks down at himself and suddenly feels overdressed. His suit is tan, suitable for day-wear, and he’s wearing not only his customary scarf but also the bright orange tie Amalia gave him last Christmas. He’s dressed properly, he thinks defensively. The same way he’s dressed for every EU meeting since he managed to convince himself buying into the Union was a good idea.

But of course there’s Spain, looking like he just rolled out of bed, leaning back on the legs of his chair and sharing a private smile with his sister. And now he’s glancing back at Nederland, catching his eye and waving, goading Nederland into acknowledging his presence. 

Nederland doesn’t give in, turns away with such force he ends up almost entirely turned around. Belgium clears her throat, and then grabs Nederland by the shoulder to turn him around when he doesn’t immediately respond. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers in clipped Dutch, though her tone indicates she knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Nederland presses his lips into a thin line and doesn’t answer. Belgium rolls her eyes. 

\--

“Holanda! Hey, wait up!” 

Nederland keeps walking down the hallway, determined to ignore the voice behind him. He has his hands tucked into his pockets and his head held high, as though he can’t notice anyone out of his line of sight. 

“Hol—hey! Are you listening?” 

Gnashing his teeth, Nederland says gruffly, “You better not be talking to me.” 

Spain laughs, light and airy, catches up and throws one arm over Nederland’s shoulders. “No one else here, is there? Who else would I be talking to?”

“You better not be _touching_ me,” Nederland hisses, pushing Spain away forcefully. Spain just laughs again, in that infuriating way he has. 

The last session of the day had adjourned only fifteen minutes ago, and after exchanging messages from his boss to others’ Nederland has a very strict set of priorities. A hot bath, a good smoke, and an uninterrupted sleep—each step repeated as necessary. Spain is not, and never will be, on that list. 

“Naranja? Are you listening?” 

He startles abruptly, glares down at Spain. “I told you not to call me that.” 

“Why not?” Spain asks wheedlingly. He steps back into Nederland’s space, reaches out with one hand to grab at the other nation’s tie. The orange silk creates a bridge between them. 

Nederland feels his face color, slaps Spain’s hand away. “Because you said it in fucking _Spanish_.” He manages to keep any inflection out of his voice, manages to relay that fact as though it should be obvious.

(And, really, it should be.)

But Spain isn’t done yet. He steps closer, so that when Nederland takes a step back he hits the wall. Spain reaches out—slowly, deliberately—and traces two fingers along the line of Nederland’s jaw. 

(He should be pushing Spain away, and he knows it—he _wants_ to. But for some reason he’s frozen, except for the involuntarily shiver that goes through him.)

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Just trying to spend some time with you, Naranja,” Spain says quietly. He leans up on tip-toe to kiss Nederland’s cheek, goes off-center and lands sloppily against lips and chin. 

Nederland reaches out, but instead of pushing Spain away he grabs the other man by the shoulders, plants one foot and pivots so that their positions reverse. Spain laughs, lets Nederland take control as he leans in.

“We are in my sister’s house,” Nederland hisses. As though that fact should be scandalizing, as if they haven’t done this in a dozen other places. Their encounters aren’t frequent—thankfully—but over the centuries they’ve added up. When Nederland lived in Spain’s house and they spent hours yelling at one another, until finally Spain would grab him roughly and force his silence. The last night of his revolt, when he’d come to secure a treaty and ended up wrapped in Spain’s arms, held so tenderly the blood froze in his veins. The Napoleon Years, when they’d met in Paris and had laid together, equally diminished but equal at last. And then the last century, the last decade—Brazil and South Africa and two months ago in Madrid… 

“Mm.” Spain is noncommittal, relaxed in Nederland’s grip. He reaches out again, brushes his fingers along the inside of Nederland’s wrist. “You’ve rooms here, don’t you?”

Nederland thinks that if he’s ever going to die, it’ll be because Spain irritated him to the point of spontaneous combustion. Even now he feels fire running through his veins, hot and demanding. He flexes his fingers around Spain’s shoulders, wishes for a way to wipe the smug grin off the other man’s face. 

The solution is comes to is simple, really—he leans in and kisses Spain, bites down on his lower lip and demands Spain part his lips. Spain does so willingly, another laugh swallowed as the two of them struggle for control. 

They part, panting—Nederland lets go of Spain with one hand to push the hair back off his face, Spain smiles and rubs his palm along the nape of Nederland’s neck. 

“You’re always so stubborn,” he says, pouts for effect. 

\--

They stand together in Nederland’s bedroom, eyeing each other like cowboys waiting to draw pistols. Finally, Spain holds out both his arms, cocks his head to one side and says, “Come here, Holanda.” 

Nederland has never done very well with orders. But he strides towards Spain, shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside. He fixes his gaze on the undone buttons of Spain’s shirt, growls low in his throat. He pulls Spain towards him and sets about undoing the rest of the buttons, making short work of them. He licks his lips when Spain’s chest in laid bare before him. He leans down and kisses the juncture of Spain’s neck and shoulder, sucks a bruise into his skin just so Spain will think twice about leaving his buttons undone tomorrow.

Spain gasps, brings up both arms to circle Nederland’s shoulders. He pushes Nederland away lightly, tugs on his sleeves. He strips Nederland just as efficiently as Nederland had stripped him, and for a moment they are both so focused on the task that they don’t even pause to kiss. 

When they stand before each other, naked, Nederland rests his hands against Spain’s hips and holds him in place for a long moment, sizing him up with a keen gaze. 

“What do you want?” he asks quietly.

Spain hums, pulls Nederland down to kiss his chin and lips and the faded line of his scar. “I told you. I just want to spend some time with you.”

Nederland frowns. “If that’s some kind of euphami—”

Spain kisses him again, and Nederland can feel his lips pulling into another smile. “What do you want?” he says lightly. And then, firm and clear, “I’ll let you have it.” 

Nederland’s gaze darkens, and he moves his hands low to kneed Spain’s ass, almost smiles himself when Spain lets out another of those breathy gasps. 

It’s a simple matter from there, to pick Spain up in his arms and tumble him onto the bed. To climb up after him and kiss his lips, his chest, the smooth skin of his inner thigh. Spain gasps and turns and laughs—like he’s ticklish, like he can’t control the reaction. Nederland has long since stopped taking offense, now uses Spain’s smiles and noises to gauge how much of a reaction he’s getting. 

“Holanda,” Spain says, as Nederland nudges him into turning over. He complies immediately, hums softly as Nederland climbs over his body, long pale limbs boxing Spain in. Nederland lowers his head, takes his time—kisses Spain along the nape of his neck and all the way down to the small of his back. Nederland enjoys the way Spain’s breath hitches, the way he murmurs too-pretty words in Spanish. 

(Fuck him, he doesn’t _hate_ the language. At least, not like this.) 

Nederland is quiet and focuses all the while, hands running down Spain’s sides and enjoying the slight tremors of the other man’s body. Spain’s head is turned to one side against the sheets, curls in disarray and eyes bright. Nederland swallows a smile—swallows a compliment, the “you’re beautiful,” that’s fighting to escape—by kissing Spain’s thigh, then shifting higher. When he slips his tongue between Spain’s cheeks, laps along his hole, Spain fists the sheets and yelps.

Now Nederland does grin, because Spain can’t see him. He continues for long moments, leaving no part of Spain untouched as the other man shivers and squirms beneath him. 

“Holanda—you—”

Nederland lifts his head briefly, hands on Spain’s hips. “Hm?”

“Don’t stop,” Spain says, and he turns his head to one side so that Nederland can see the contented smile playing on his lips.

Nederland shakes his head, ducks back down and rubs small circles into Spain’s hips, along his ass and thighs. 

“Don’t worry,” Nederland says, but his voice is dark and he doesn’t mean to be reassuring. 

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, rolls over slightly to reach the dresser and fumble for lube. Spain turns himself over in the meantime, crosses his hands under his head and looks like the cat who just caught the canary. 

“What’re you so smug about it?” Nederland asks, suddenly suspicious.

“No te preocupes,” Spain murmurs sweetly. 

Nederland eyes him closely, but can’t seem to care more about Spain’s motives than his body, at this moment. So he doesn’t, just shifts on the bed until he’s looming over Spain again. He grabs the other man’s wrists, holds them tight above Spain’s head. He turns so that he can hold Spain’s hands over his head with one hand, then gives Spain a wolfish grin of his own. 

“What do you want, Spanje?” he says again.

Spain squirms in his hold, but doesn’t try to break it.

“Tell me,” Nederland says, voice going soft and rough.

“Holanda,” Spain says, biting down hard on his lower lip. 

Nederland leans in closer, his lips against the shell of Spain’s ear. “Tell me what you want,” he says again.

Spain tries to shift, but only brings their bodies closer together. They’re both fully hard, and it’s almost laughable how obvious it is—how much they want this, want each other, but won’t admit to it. 

Nederland takes his time, sucks on Spain’s earlobe and ruts against his body with practiced ease. Spain mewls, lays back abruptly and goes still just as Nederland reaches down to jack himself off, relieve the pressure. 

He’s just turned his head when Spain reaches up, catches him around the wrist. 

“Naranja,” he says, croons the stupid nickname like an endearment. “I want you. Please.” 

Something snaps in Nederland’s mind, lays limp and then rearranges itself with startling speed. He grabs Spain’s hands again, places them over his head, presses them down into the sheets with a warning pressure.

“Don’t move,” he says quietly. Spain complies for once as Nederland shifts down his body, edges in between Spain’s legs. The lube, forgotten earlier, is triumphantly reclaimed. Spain looks down at Nederland through glassy eyes as Nederland presses one finger into him with firm, intent pressure. 

“Yes,” Spain breathes, head lolling back. “Yes, Hol, yes.” 

Nederland smiles, too gently. He notices Spain hasn’t moved his arms, that he’s spread out for Nederland like a feast. He presses a second finger into Spain, watches the other man spread his legs further and laugh soundlessly. 

The world goes quiet around Nederland for a moment, his focus only on moving his fingers inside Spain as he telegraphs the other man’s responses—the shudders and the squirms, the mumbled praise and stuttering breaths. 

(Amazingly, he thinks, this isn’t about power. It isn’t about making Spain breathless or forcing a reaction out of him. It’s about how fucking happy he looks, how stupidly content, how he doesn’t move his arms but keeps tracking his eyes up and down Nederland’s body, like he wants nothing more than to touch—)

“Ready?” Nederland asks shortly. 

Spain nods curtly, biting his lips raw and red. 

“What was that?” Nederland says. He knows he’s being difficult; he enjoys every moment. 

“Holanda…” Spain’s voice hitches as Nederland aims for his prostate, rubs with gentle precision. 

“Hm?” He keeps working, keeps moving, even though he wants nothing more than to be inside Spain, and now. Holding out is worth it, though—or it will be. 

“ _Please_ ,” Spain moans, voice going high and then low as he shudders, as his hips cant upwards and his eyes close involuntarily. 

Nederland slips his fingers out of Spain easily, almost loses it at the way Spain cries out because of it. But then Nederland leans up, encircles Spain’s cock with his slick fingers, and moves in rhythmic pattern—tug, tug, turn. His fingers make quick work of it, and soon enough there’s a telltale warmth on Nederland’s hand as Spain laughs and breaths and says, “Dios mío, Holanda…” He draws out the second syllable of Nederland’s name, his voice smooth and rich as the sea. 

Nederland breathes heavily, sits back a moment. It’s easy to reach for one of Spain’s legs, to pepper kisses along his skin from ankle to inner thigh as Spain groans and comes down from orgasm. 

It’s another quiet moment, and then: “What are you waiting for?” 

Spain’s looking up at him through his glassy, half-lidded eyes, and Nederland finds himself enraptured by the sight. He’s always found Spain beautiful, with his dark hair and sun-kissed skin. He’s used to resenting that fact, but now there is only an appreciation, and all the time in the world for watching Spain’s muscles move beneath taught skin. 

“C’mon,” Spain slurs. “Holanda, come on.”

Nederland looks up at Spain’s face, feels something he can’t describe. “You talk too much,” he says. But he doesn’t make Spain wait any longer, slicks himself up with quick strokes and moves back between Spain’s legs to position himself. 

Now Spain does move, lifts his arms and hoists himself forward, wraps his arms around Nederland’s neck as Nederland breaches him in one smooth stroke. Spain gasps, words stolen at last, as Nederland begins to move. 

It’s quick motions and soft words—Spain saying _yes_ and _querido_ and things Nederland can’t decipher—as Nederland runs his hands all over Spain’s body, enjoys the way Spain smiles and stutters and gasps at intervals. 

Nederland comes quietly, with a kiss pressed into Spain’s jaw and his hands clasped around Spain’s hips. He feels Spain exhale around him, and then he tumbles them both forward, so that he’s covering the smaller man entirely with his body. 

They lie there for a moment, their breathing pushing their chests up against one another’s as Nederland tries to focus on anything but eventually gives up. Spain’s running one hand gently along the curve of his spine, and Nederland sighs into the contact, presses his lips to Spain’s shoulder as he drifts.

\--

Spain’s sleeping heavily when Nederland hoists himself out of bed and grapples around in his pile of clothes for his cigarettes and lighter. He heads over to the window, just next to the bed, and pulls aside the curtain as he pushes the widow open just slightly. He lights the cigarette and brings it to his lips, takes a long drag and blows circles out the open widow.

He looks out the window onto Bel’s gardens, tries to busy his mind with suggestions for how she should arrange the buds this year. But it isn’t long before he hears Spain shift in bed, and a moment later warm hands are pressing against his stomach as Spain rests his head against Nederland’s back. 

“Thanks,” Spain says softly, quieter than Nederland’s ever heard him.

It’s easy, like this, when Nederland doesn’t have to look at him and process his feelings—his anger and his lust and his love—all at once. He nods, inhales. 

“Y’can just say it, you know,” he says quietly. “Don’t have to annoy the shit out of me first.”

Now Spain laughs, and Nederland can feel the force of it against his back. “Of course I don’t have to,” he says. “But where would the fun be in that?”

Nederland rolls his eyes, but a moment later he stubs out the cigarette and lets Spain lead him back to bed.


End file.
